CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
To Mick and Mulac, fleeing the ghastly realms of Nul-y-Gray, Place of the Undead, a
fresh breeze rippling across The Dragon Hills had tasted sweeter by far than
the finest vinre. They ran and
skipped like lambs until, finally, collapsing out of breath on the tawny grass.
Nearby,
a pretty snake slithered past them. They would need his help, Ricci knew, but a
commanding voice in his head warned that now was not the time to change back.
“I wish!” muttered Ricci crossly, having got the last three changing spells
completely wrong. It was almost a relief not to have to bother for a while and
thus deprive Astor of the satisfaction of watching him make a fool of himself.
Astor could be more supportive, surely? But whenever Ricci protested, the great
warlock would invariably comment how the only way to learn was by correcting
one’s own mistakes. That’s all very well,
Ricci fumed, darting out his tongue but failing to catch a passing gai fly, but just look where those mistakes had gotten them all so far!
“Listen!”
Mulac pricked up his ears, crawled up the mound where they sprawled and peered
over the top. A snake got there first but seemed harmless enough so the Nu-gen
paid it scant attention.
“It
could be the others!” Mick whispered excitedly, drawing level with Mulac while
cautiously emulating the Nu-gen by remaining on his belly.
“There
are too many,” Mulac replied sofly, “and these are no krills either. I am
certain of it.”
“Thank
God for that! But how can you be sure?”
“Because
a krill’s vile body shines, even at a distance, like a mirror to the devil.
Besides, they smell. Have you forgotten so soon?” Something closely resembling
a grin crossed the surly visage and it struck Mick that sometimes he almost
liked the Nu-gen. “But do not thank your god too soon. If I am right, these
could pose a greater threat than krills.”
“Who
are they?”
“Druids
perhaps since we cannot be far from the Vale of Ca-an. Some are still said to
worship there and make other mischief.”
“My
grandfather is a Druid,” said Mick defensively.
“Perhaps,”
agreed Mulac absently, “but it was not the Mage of Mages who kept us company at
Mal-y-Dros. Astor would never have been so careless. It was an image sent to
trap you.”
Again,
Mick was prompted to ask, “How can you be sure?”
The
Nu-gen shrugged. “I wish I knew. All my life I have been visited by strange
feelings and even stranger thoughts. They are as much a part of me as my right
hand. They make little sense but nor do they pose any threat. It was they who
brought me to Mal-y-Dros, I am certain of it. Like it or not, motherworlder,
our destinies are interwoven by forces beyond our understanding…yet,” he added
under his quick breath.
“I
rather liked the old boy at first,” Mick confessed, “But he changed somehow…”
“Even
the most powerful dark spells cannot escape White Magic for long,” muttered
Mulac. You can be sure Astor guessed what was up.”
"You
know Astor?”
To
Mick’s amazement, Mulac actually laughed. “We Nu-gen are considered to be worth
less than the dirt beneath your feet, motherworlder. We have no truck with
magic nor would the likes of Astor spare the likes of me a passing glance. But
legends are told about him in my tribe. It is said, as you suggest, that he has
links with Druids. They say, too, that he has dallied with elves and his
daughter, Galia, was part elven.”
“Galia?”
whispered Mick and tried to recall the bare bones of the tall tale Ricci had
spun what already seemed a lifetime ago. “She was married to Michal the Great,
right?”
“You
know our lore?” Mulac could not hide his surprise.
“A
little…”
“Yes,
Galia was his consort. All the bloodline and other poor souls, too, perished in
the Great Fire. Yet, even to this day, it is rumoured that Galia and her
children escaped.”
“So
what happened to them?”
Mulac
shrugged. “Who knows? It is probably just rumour. But can you imagine such a
female? Part eleven, part druid. What wouldn’t all Mamelon give for such a
creature to aid us now?”
Mick
felt oddly uncomfortable and fell silent. Not far away, a snake slithered
towards a nearby cave. These two were getting too close for comfort, thought
Ricci nervously. The Master had a grudging respect for Nu-gen and he was
beginning to understand why. This Mulac was nobody’s fool. Even so, it would be
just his hard luck if the Master suspected he had been giving away too much too
soon!
Mulac
continued to observe the Druids as they formed a circle and fancied he could
hear a chanting in the wind. By force of habit, he clutched the disc that had
hung around his neck for as long as he could remember. It has always been a
source of comfort, strength too. For a moment, it felt furry between his
fingers – like wolf skin. Wolves gathered in the nether realms of memory. But these
were not beasts of prey on the hunt or at a kill…but romping and playing much
the way children once had on Mamelon. He felt a warm, eager licking sensation
all over – and why not? Had he not lived
among wolves once? Certainly, he had never feared them. Yet how he had come to
find himself among them, he had no recollection. He had asked the Magela many
times. She always smiled and changed the subject. Eventually, he had stopped
asking.
Out
of the corner of an eye, Mulac spotted a snake gliding towards what looked like
a small cave. “Look,” he whispered to the motherworlder, “We can shelter there
and eat. Go, start a fire while I shall catch us a tasty rabbit.”
“Isn’t
that a bit risky?” Mick was dubious.
“Are
you hungry?”
“You
bet. I’m starving!”
“We
Nu-gen have a saying. If a wise man listens to his head and a fool follows his
heart, only a complete idiot ignores his stomach! I won’t be long.” The grin
was unmistakable this time as he crawled off, away from either snake or Druids,
leaving Mick to wonder how he was expected to get a fire going.
At
the entrance to the cave, Mick gathered armfuls of brush and dry grasses. Once inside, he took the puli from his
tunic pocket and pointed. Nothing happened. He heaved a sigh. It looked as
though if he would have to resort to rubbing a couple of twigs together
although he had always been sceptical that it ever worked, even for Boy Scouts.
But it had to be worth a try. He glared and gave the puli one last chance.
“Come on, you know you can do it.
Light me a fire, dammit!” he almost shouted. Instantly feeling foolish, he was
about to return the thing to his pocket when, without warning, it burst into
life and shot a tiny flame into the little pile. By the time Mulac returned
with not one but two rabbits, if on the skinny side, Mick had a good fire
blazing just inside the cave’s entrance.
Ricci
slithered further into the cave, the tantalising smell of rabbit as good an
excuse as any to try another changing spell. The cave itself turned out to be
much bigger than it looked. Ricci found a spot where he would not bang his head
once he reverted to normal self. He was about to utter what he hoped – this
time – would prove the right incantation when he sense something bad, very
bad.
Hastily
sliding along the rock floor of the cave by the way he had only just come,
Ricci paused by the campfire where Mick and Mulac were now talking with a
stranger. One look told Ricci the worst. From the strained expression on the
Nu-gen’s face, he suspected Mulac, too, had guessed the newcomer’s identity.
Once again it struck Ricci that this Mulac was an extraordinary young man. For
a Nu-gen, he was really quite remarkable. More
than meets the eye… he mused, I’ll
say! curling up unobtrusively nearby to watch and listen.
The
stranger, a hunchback, flung Mulac a fiendish smile and Mick felt chilled to
the marrow in spite of the fire’s warmth.
“You know me, then, Nu-gen.” It was not a question.
“I
know you,” growled Mulac.
“So
who is he?” Mick wanted to know, “What’s his name? Aren’t you going to
introduce us?”
“You
heard him…” The hunchback continued to fix Mulac with an icy stare. “What’s his
name? Aren’t you going to introduce us?” mimicking the motherworlder with such
perfection that Mick’s blood ran cold.
“Is
he a Druid?” Mick was genuinely curious and unprepared for cackles of laughter
that erupted from both Nu-gen and hunchback simultaneously. It was a horrible
sound. Mick put out his palms up to the fire. But the gesture was more by way
of an instinctive self-defence mechanism than any desire to warm his hands.
“He
is a Stalker. Stalkers have no need of a name. Besides, any name would be too
good for them,” snarled Mulac. “They are
evil and serve the Dark.”
“I
don’t understand.” Mick could not quite decide whether they might be pulling
his leg. If they were, he reflected
grimly, they made an incredible double act.
“Will
you explain or shall I?” the Stalker asked Mulac in so conversational a tone
that left Mick feeling thoroughly nonplussed.
“There
are those among even the darkest souls that fear Death,” Mulac, too, spoke
matter-of-factly, “so they make a pact with the Dark in exchange for a freedom
of sorts. They wander the world selecting souls that otherwise may well have
passed the Dark by…”
“Like
ours,” Mick gave a dry laugh.
“Like
ours,” Mulac agreed, but so placidly that Mick wanted to shake some sense into him.
“But
that’s daft. What have we done to deserve…?” then Mick paled, anticipating the
answer before it came.
“Kirin
meant well, but when he led us through Nul-y-Gray
he broke all the laws of Man and Beast and so did we. Now we must pay the
price.”
“He’s
come…”
“For
our souls, yes...”
“He’s
going to kill us?” Mick jumped up in horror.
“A
Stalker may take with him only one soul at a time,” said Mulac slowly.
“So
how does he choose which one goes walkies?” But Mick’s feeble attempt at a joke
fell on deaf ears.
“If
you mean, how does he decide which one of us dies, he doesn’t. We do.” Mulac
met Mick’s appalled expression with a steady gaze that betrayed no ounce of
feeling. It was surreal.
“You
mean…?” Mick stammered.
“That
one of us must kill the other, yes. That way, one soul goes straight to the
Dark and the other is left to wait.”
The
three figures around the fire looked from one to the other and then into the
flames where the eyes of the Devil himself seemed to leap out at them, leering
and triumphant.
Ricci
gave the unholy scene his entire concentration, imbibed it into his inner
vision with every nuance of being and despatched it to Astor as one might return
a homing pigeon. The attempt took all his energy. No one noticed the snake or
that it lay perfectly still.
“You
will have things to talk over,” murmured the hunchback, “so I will leave you
but…I will be back.” He wandered off as
casually and unobtrusively as he had arrived.
“Some
weirdo!” exclaimed Mick. “Tell me he was joking!” But the look on Mulac’s face
told another story. “Well, that’s great! That’s just bloody great! First you
take my girlfriend, now you take my life!
Well, let me tell you, sunshine, I’m no pushover!”
“Sit
down, shut up and listen very carefully,” growled Mulac. Trembling with a
mixture of fear and rage, Mick did as he was told. “What must be done must be
done,” said Mulac slowly, “But we do have a choice. There is a way we can beat
the Stalker at its own game.”
“How?”
snapped Mick, all ears…
“It
requires one of us to give his body willingly to the other. That way, the
Stalker has no claim on us and the Devil must seek elsewhere for new
playthings.”
“What?”
cried Mick, “You want me to stand here like a lemon while you stick a knife in
me or something? You must be joking!”
“A
knife will do...” Mulac shrugged. “....and as I would prefer a clean death, I will
show you exactly where to place it.”
Mick’s
jaw dropped. “You want me to kill you?”
“But
first you must rid your heart of all hatred,” Mulac continued as if he hadn’t
heard. “It is true that I love Bethan. It is also true, I think, that she loves
me. Are you man enough yet to accept that and take my hand?”
Mulac
stretched out his right hand. Shadow and firelight streaked across the flesh.
Mick was reminded of the rabbit he had watched the Nu-gen skin earlier with
grudging admiration for his skill with a knife. This Mulac, he had to admit,
wasn’t half as bad a bloke as he’d once thought. Hadn’t he proved it already among the ghastly
Shades that roamed Nul-y-Gray? Now, here
he is offering his life. The man is no saint but he has to be the
next best thing.
Mick
was lost in admiration. If Beth has to love someone else, she could
do a lot worse than Mulac, he pondered ruefully.
“Friends?”
asked Mulac simply.
Mick
grasped the hand firmly. “Friends,” he agreed.
The
Nu-gen’s smile was as broad as it was sad. “Good. You are a worthy friend, motherworlder.” To his horror, Mick found himself blushing.
“Now, we must be done before the Stalker returns.” He leaned against a wall of
the cave, ripped open his tunic and bared a hairy chest. Next, he took a knife
from a sheath at his belt and handed it to Mick. “Don’t be afraid. Take it. I will guide your
hand.” Mick could only stare at the blade, glinting angrily in the fire’s
subdued glow. In a daze, he took the proffered hilt and felt Mulac grab his
wrist. “Here. All you have to do is raise your knife arm and strike. Mick did
so.
All
at once, it was as if a mist had cleared before his very eyes and Mick’s
appalled consciousness took in the bared chest, the knife…the full impact of
what he was about to do. “I can’t!” he cried and dropped his arm, “I won’t!”
“You
must!” Mulac insisted.
“Why
don’t we make a run for it?” Mick
sobbed.
“No
one runs from a Stalker,” said Mulac grimly, “You either beat him at his own
game or hand over your soul on a platter. I beg you, motherworlder, kill me.
You have proved yourself a man, now prove yourself a friend.”
“I
can’t!”
“I
am Nu-gen, motherworlder. We live only to be free. Can you imagine such as I
kept in the Devil’s own chains forever? I could not bear it, yet I would have
no choice. My only choice is now. and I have made it, just as you have made
yours. Honour it, motherworlder. Don’t think about killing a friend but saving
a soul. Strike now before it is too late!”
Mick
raised the knife again, took his time and let his blurred vision focus exactly
where the Nu-gen had directed. He thought he heard a sound. Had the Stalker
returned? Was it already too late? Mulac’s imploring expression tugged at his
heartstrings until he was sure they must break.
This was not Tonbridge Wells, he kept telling himself, but Mamelon. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. Whatever,
he could not, must not let his friend down. No-ooooooooooooooooo!!! He screamed inwardly and lunged with the
blade. Mulac’s body crumpled, his own knife embedded in his heart. As the
enormity and full horror of what he had done struck home, Mick collapsed in a
sobbing heap on the ground.
“There’s
no time for all that now,” a familiar voice seemed to be calling to Mick across
time and space. “Come along, we must make haste before that dreadful Stalker
comes back. I’ll say!” Ricci, restored to his old self, finally stopped
wringing his hands long enough to assist a grief-stricken Mick to his feet.
Mick, too distraught to even question the queer little man’s presence, allowed
himself to be led away. “You can cry all you want later although you should be
proud of yourselves, both of you. Now, come on. I’m really not up to dealing
with a Stalker after everything I’ve been through. There has to be another way
out of this cave, there just has to be!”
Ricci
grabbed Mick’s hand and ran. Mechanically, Mick’s feet complied and soon the
pair were twisting and turning, ducking and diving down a maze of tunnels. As if this wasn’t bad enough! wailed
Ricci inwardly, but I dare say this is
child’s play compared with what we can expect once we reach those wretched
Purple Mountains!
Even
in the bleakest despair through which he ran, Mick could have sworn he heard
faint echoes of the Okay Song and gratefully clung to the comfort it brought.
Far
behind them, the figure of a woman with white hair piled high, took the lifeless
Mulac in her arms. Etta, the magela, would have wept. Only, she had no tears
left. They had all been shed long, long ago. Instead, she crooned a lullaby
older even than the rocks where they huddled and prayed Astor would be in time.
To be continued
